


sour times

by hingabee



Series: kgb fun [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Other, everyones miserable, having a fever sucks, shitty pasts and shitty dads implied i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 06:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13265976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hingabee/pseuds/hingabee
Summary: What can he say; not only the boy deserves a break sometimes.





	sour times

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Miscellany](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13598175) by [PunishedPyotr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunishedPyotr/pseuds/PunishedPyotr). 



> this is (again) for aireyvs white diamond and goes with numbed in moscow rip title stolen from another portishead song bc what else
> 
> ... also please dont make any nasty jokes abt dd/lb shit or smth thank u :'^(

Playing nurse is not exactly his favourite way to pass time these days, but the kid is his responsibility and so is the fever glowing on that scarred face. 

Ocelot carefully places a wet rag on Bogomol’s forehead and sits back in the creaking old chair he has dragged into the bedroom from the kitchen.

"You can leave." Says the kid because of course he does; eyelids heavy and his voice even smaller than usual. "I’m alright now."

Ocelot decides to not correct him on that but simply ignores his meager protests as he drags the covers over Bogomol’s skinny frame.

"I told you before," He lectures instead. "If you do not dress properly you will get sick. And no," Before Bogomol can even object Ocelot cuts him off. "I do not care about that. If you’d leave these childish skirts at home and finally wear the coat we bought for you I am sure the amount of times I have to excuse you from work because of sickness would surely decrease." Also the coat had been very expensive; and unlike almost every other piece of his wardrobe; it actually suited Bogomol quite well.

The boy just huffs and turns his face away as Ocelot gets up to take care of the boiling water in the kitchen’s horribly scaled kettle. Preparing tea; now almost ritualistic; reminds him of the late Seventies and he smiles a little as he pours himself and Bogomol two cups before setting them down on a horribly scratched, wooden tablet. 

For a moment he just stares at the little plumes of smoke rising from the porcellain before reaching into his pocket to pull out a delicate little flask with a blank label.

What can he say; not only the boy deserves a break sometimes.

Quickly he adds a few drops to one of the cups and walks back to the bedroom to place the tablet on the messy nightstand; pushing aside used tissues and candy wrappers in the process.

Bogomol is facing demonstratively away from him.

"Come on, this will help you sleep it out." Ocelot says as he sits back down and takes his own cup to inhale the comforting aroma with relish. "It’s anise." _Your favourite._ he adds silently and watches Bogomol‘s reluctant movements as the boy turns around to take a hesitant first sip before deciding that this beverage is safe and downs it in only a few quick gulps before falling back into his sheets.

Ocelot watches the blankets rise under shallow breaths with little interest for a while before Bogomol‘s rasping and rattling lungs find an even rythm in sleep.

After finishing his own tea Ocelot leans back and continues reading one of the many books scattered around the room; still dog-eared where he has marked it last time.

  
"Please… ."

Ocelot looks up from his reading and raises an eyebrow at Bogomol’s strained expression; the boy seems to be still asleep as he thrashes and pushes against his woolen confines in frustration. 

The fever does seem to have gotten better but when Bogomol finally opens his sticky and bloodshot eyes there is nothing but confused vulnerability behind them as he reaches for Ocelot with a trembling hand. 

Putting down the book, Ocelot adjusts the kid's blanket and helps him drink from a crumpled plastic bottle, wipes the corners of Bogomol's mouth when he barely manages to get any of the fluid down his throat and takes the now luke-warm rag from his boiling skin. 

He does not get to leave for the kitchen though, because the boy's bony fingers dig into his arm; no real force behind it to hold him back but a pleading noise from Bogomol that makes him turn and stare down at that pathetically pale and sweaty face.

"Please don't go." Bogomol whispers before interrupting himself with a heavy coughing fit.  

Ocelot pauses and watches him with care but allows the desperate touching; wrinkles his nose when Bogomol chokes on mucus and saliva and sinks back against the pillows. 

"How are you feeling?" He asks; despite the answer being clearly displayed in front of him; and sits down on his chair to check the boys temperature with the back of his hand. 

Then Bogomol mumbles _something_ and it actually takes Ocelot a few seconds to process the meaning of those words before quickly withdrawing his hand and staring at Bogomol in an even mixture of horror and disgust. 

"Father, please... . Don't leave me." 

Huh, who would have thought that the kid would actually manage to surprise him even now? 

Still; the room is filled with heavy emotion; it comes off Bogomol in waves of fear and longing as he tightens his grip on Ocelots arm and starts sniffling. Usually dealing with him is not that difficult; as much as Bogomol would love to deny it; he is predictable; so Ocelot has a trained and practised response for every possible stupid and terrible thing the kid could do or say. 

But despite every _sane_ part of him telling him to leave; get out, close the door, let the boy to rot for all he cares; he leans closer to Bogomol to make sure to keep that absurd little parody of comfort and care upright.

"I'm so sorry!" Bogomol chokes and thick, slimy tears start collecting in the corners of his eyes before running down his cheeks to leave hot trails on his scars; his foul and uneven breath weighed down by sickness. "Please, Father. I swear I didn't mean to. Please don't... ." Finally his voice trails off and he stares blankly at the lead foil covered ceiling; lips still moving along to silent words.

Ocelot watches him for a bit before leaning back and gently freeing his arm from Bogomol's grip.  

He knows he should just play along and get over with it; but he is not a god damn babysitter or the kid's annoying, little friend; he should be working right now instead of sitting in a dirty flat in god damn Moscow of all places, but somehow _this_ has become part of his work along the way and at times Ocelot really does get tempted to just send Bogomol away to have him monitored by someone else. 

"Papa, I love you. Please, believe me... ."

Oh, but there would not be any fun in that, would it?

Ocelot sighs, pushes a greasy strand of hair from Bogomol's sweaty forehead and lets the boy search for with his hands blindly before finally giving in and just taking them into his own.

Despite his self control Ocelot feels bile rising in his throat as he speaks.

"Of course, Bogomolchek. I know."

For a moment Bogomol just stops moving altogether; doesn't breathe or sniffle or cry or whatever he does when he gets like this. He just looks up at Ocelot with big, terrified eyes and then flashes a crooked smile as he pulls at Ocelot's hands and arms. 

"Thank you... ."

Bogomol's past, of course, is not a complete secret to Ocelot and he supposes that he does not have to push much further than this to get the kid calmed down and satisfied. 

He starts crying again though, even if it looks more like from relief than anything else, and paws at his blanket and Ocelot's shirt.

Ocelot pushes him back down, reassures him with gentle whispers and declarations of false affection; it is so much easier when he gets to play a role that does not go with his own name and voice; and stays by the boy's bedside as long as he can manage before being driven out of the room by something he has carefully embalmed, laid to rest and buried again and again.

  
When he leaves the flat at dawn the boy is fast asleep; temperature still slightly raised but nowhere close to an actual fever.  

He just hopes that Bogomol won't notice the stench of vomit clinging to his bathroom.


End file.
